


Poison

by Eloarei



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Internal Monologue, M/M, Poison, Stream of Consciousness, s1e04, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloarei/pseuds/Eloarei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>s1e04 Stiles considers sucking the poison out of Derek's arm, and decides he'd probably rather not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poison

**Author's Note:**

> Lol I'm really not sure what I've just written, but I have somewhere to be and not enough time to re-read it. Enjoy! =D

The (semi-)famous words of the (pretty-)great Alice Cooper kept flashing through his head. They weren't advice, just lyrics about sweat and lace and other sexy things, but it stopped him from suggesting that he could try to suck the poison out with his mouth, despite all the totally reliable wilderness training he received from idly watching Animal Planet, which suggested he should. 

"Yeah, no," he muttered to himself, imagining Derek several degrees more nude and writhing in ecstasy instead of agony. _I'm so not ready to think about this._ Then again, he was hardly ready to saw someone's arm off either, so 'ready' was kind of a moot point, because it looked like at least one of those things was likely to happen pretty soon. 

_Oh god, if I choose the gay thoughts, does that mean I can skip the mutilating?_ he thought. _Karmically? If I promise to really think about it for like, an hour?_ In the corner, Derek groaned again, sounding kind of like Stiles was starting to feel. He leaned his elbows onto the steel operating table, dropped his head down into his hands and rolled his eyes heaven-ward in a strange combination of exasperation, sarcasm, and shockingly sincere but sort of vaguely-directed prayer. _No?! Augh, man, look. Every night for a week, then!_ Glancing again at Derek, who was looking exceptionally unwell yet still covetously attractive, he amended, _and I'll even talk to Scott about it. That way there's twice the suffering. Given how much he hates talking about mushy shit, that should be about equal to dismemberment, right?_ Derek didn't make any more terrible death-gurgles for a good few minutes, so Stiles took that as a pretty resolute go-ahead from the-powers-that-be. 

He spent the next 20 minutes alternately being actively worried about Derek's well-being, and appreciatively analyzing his various gay-thought-inducing features. He spent the 10 minutes after _that_ alternately being actively worried about Derek's well-being, and wondering if ogling the man actually counted as 'thinking about his feelings' and guessing, no, it probably didn't. 

Stiles really didn't want to waste this opportunity to be done with his requisite gay thoughts, since the other option was having them when he was at home or school or somewhere when he could be floating on a fluffy cloud of denial or cracking jokes that made him seem a lot more comfortable than he really was with the situation. And currently Derek seemed like he was feeling a little better (or maybe just too exhausted to look very much like he was in pain), so Stiles decided to maybe strike up a little conversation. 

“Soooo...” 

But then a tired growl tumbled out of Derek's mouth; Stiles could practically see it fall on the floor. “I'm really not in the mood to talk about your pheromones,” the wolf grumbled. 

Stiles balked. “Wha-. How d'you-” 

Derek's arms twitched like he was trying to bring his hands up and rub them over his face but lacked the energy, which was probably exactly the case. “Shut up, Stiles.” 

He wrinkled his nose, more at his surprise over Derek's abrasiveness than at his abrasiveness. “Okay, fine, I guess. You're the invalid here, I'll listen to you. This time.” He shrugged and turned his back, digging out his phone and getting ready to send a barrage of texts to Scott for the stupid idiot to sort through later in punishment, when he heard a sigh from Derek's corner of the room. 

“Just help me survive the night and we can talk about whatever you want.” 

Stiles mouth fell slightly more open than usual as he turned in the wolf's direction. He blinked dumbly for a few moments, then nodded dumbly, then realized that Derek's eyes were closed, so he grunted dumbly. He looked back down at the text he was in the middle of writing to Scott. “No, really, take your time,” it read. He sent it, knowing Scott would understand his sarcasm. (If he didn't, he'd probably only understand 2 percent of what Stiles ever said.) 

Later, he might consider telling Scott that it was only 95 percent sarcastic. Scott would, of course, assume that meant Stiles 5-percent didn't care if Derek died, because Stiles hated Derek. He probably wouldn't bother admitting that he actually only 5-percent wanted Derek to die because he 100-percent wasn't sure he wanted to have a discussion with the man about his apparent gay pheromones, because by then it would probably be a moot point. 

Or maybe because he had a conscience. He'd probably just let Scott make whatever assumptions he pleased.


End file.
